


The Spaniard and Death

by Oboeist3



Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Lots of it, M/M, reaper au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of a young reaper, a heavy soul, and perhaps a bit of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spaniard and Death

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I wrote on my tumblr and finally got around to transferring. Hope you like it. Also, for those of you interested, Chapter 4 of Rendezvous is coming along. However both Superheros, Starks, and A Town of Geniuses & Who is Mr. Jones will be on hiatus for the considerable future. I'm sorry, but there simply isn't enough time. Have a nice day and DFTBA!

The first time Death saw the boy, the sky was blue. Not the blue humans seemed to name it by, but lighter, the blue of sparkly plastic hair clips, of icing on grocery store cakes. It was frothed with angry white clouds that towered like gods, the sound of waves crashing relentlessly across the sand. He’d seen that sky before many times, taken sailors under his cloak and to their fates. Where that was, he wasn’t given the knowledge. The reaper, one of Death’s many hands, was not old enough, not wise enough, not trusted enough. It wasn’t without reason. Lovino, for that was his name, could not bear the heavy weight of a soul sometimes. He could not bear to see the living, wailing in agony as he calmly walked away with their love, their friend, their family.  _Someday_ , the elder ones told him,  _he would no longer care._ But that day had not yet come.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was the heaviest soul he’d ever found. Out in the ocean, the child had tried to catch waves and swam beyond where his feet could stand. Now, with little knowledge how to swim in swells, he was sinking, bubbles falling from his nose and lips and floating upward without regard for the body they once lived in. He sighed as he curled his fingers around his throat, he always hated taking children. The adults, they panicked at the sight of him, tried to run or fight, but kids would just grin and walk with him, away from sobbing mothers and grim-faced fathers, never looking back. Why should they? It was just a new adventure.

However, this one was even harder than usual. Even with no air in his lungs, he clung to life, clung to his heart pumping when it could be giving up, still trying and fighting. Lovino was not in the mood to fight something so determined, so passionate. Instead he whispered.

_"Flail your arms, little boy, keep your head above water. The adults will come for you."_   He wasn’t sure of that, he knew nothing of him other than he should be taking him right now. But he was tired of being the destroyer of hope, the wrecker of dreams. He would at least save this little boy, save him from wherever they went.

For once, as he walked away, Lovino looked back, as the adults did, to see a boat come to the boy’s side. He felt the corners of his lips turn upwards, and then he was gone. After all, reapers did not dwell in the world of the living.

* * *

The second time Death saw the boy, the sky was pink and yellow, like lemonade spilt on summer days, tender Sakura blossoms that fell in spring. He was not there for him, his fingers were curling around the neck of an old women, Isabella, who weighed so little he might as well be claiming air.

He stopped when he saw a teenager, still on the young side, tall as a beanpole and obviously not used to the fact, holding onto the wrinkled hand of the proud Spanish women, still beautiful centimeters from death.

"Abuela, you can’t leave. What will I do without you?" asked the boy, choked up but not yet sobbing, his face a mirage of pain and loss.

"Perhaps you will learn something for once." she said, her voice so soft but still holding onto that strength of will only Iberia could hold. Lovino knew, he’d seen everywhere. He did not pick up the soul, even if it was time. He always gave them time for last words, unlike the elders, who were always exactly on time. He was content to be late if it meant some peace for the living.

"You taught me so much, abuela. What more can I learn?" he asked, biting his bottom lip, obviously not sure if he wanted an answer.

"How to survive grief, dear nieto. Even on your own." With that, Lovino could put off his job no longer. He curled his fingers around her neck, pulled back the seal of the soul and gently took her from it, body failing with nothing to power for. The machine’s blipping turned to a whine, and Antonio finally let himself cry.

Lovino steadied the woman upright, on her feet, and she gave him a look with a mix of surprise and solid strength. Spanish strength.

"You wear such a young face, Muerto. Will you not be old for an old woman?" she asked, holding his hand. Usually the souls did not talk to Lovino, too busy being scared or shocked.

_"Death is an old one, buen anciano. But I have not yet become quite so old as that. Will you walk with me?"_  he asked, his voice rusty from lack of use. The last time being in the ear of a drowning boy, now slumped against a shell and crying.

"I will. I don’t suppose you’re allowed to tell me where?" He shook his head, and she let out a laugh. "Then let us start walking." He should have done so, should have walked off and not looked back, should have forgotten about the boy too heavy to take. But he didn’t. Instead, he let go of the hand and walked over to the him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and whispering a dangerous promise in his ear.

_"Do not cry, little boy. Your grandmother is with me. I will escort her safely. I promise."_  With that, he took the lightest soul he’d ever taken to her fate. Whatever lie beyond the gate, he hoped it made her happy.

* * *

The third time Death saw the boy, the sky was black. Black like coal, black as the dark under eyelids, the dark of a little child’s closet late at night. Antonio was alone, in a bedroom full of red and yellow, empty bottles at his feet and a gun in shaking hands. He did not want to be there, waiting as Antonio stood at the edge between two worlds, teetering dangerously. But what could he do? He’d risked so much for this boy, now a man, already, and Death comes for everyone someday. Even if it was a little early.

"Get a grip on yourshelf, Antonio." he slurred as slippery fingers raised the cool metal to his head, one resting dangerously on the trigger. "Jush one push and you’ll get to see them again." he said, as if trying to convince himself there was anything that made this alright. "Mama, papa, abuela, Fran and Gil. I miss you alright!?" he screamed, as if daring them to counter his actions. But they were beyond the reach of hearing.

"I’m sorry I couldn't wait anymore." said the broken shell of a man, gently pressing the trigger, but there was no bang, no more red in this room dripping it. Because Death had taken the gun in his hand instead of his task, had broken his orders again and was now looking straight at him, visible as anything else.

_"No. I refuse to take you, little boy. Not until you are old and weary and ready for me."_  he hissed, and the wide green eyes studied him with fascination.

"I-It’s you! The angel from when I was little! You’re beautiful…" he breathed out, and the words were so unexpected it surprised Death, gun clacking to the floor. He thought him an angel? Those things of wings and hope that looked over the living? He could not be more wrong.

Death shook his head.  _"I am not an angel."_

Green eyes stared at him, so green they could be compared to no other, forests and plants were not worthy of it. He didn't see green often, almost never, with what he was. Green was life, fighting against him every day, something beyond his limited reach.

"Than what are you?" he asked, a hand brushing against the ice cold skin of his face, gently, with a care he’d never known nor ever expected to. He held hands with the souls to guide them, but this was different. This was something  _alive_.

_"I am a ferryman. And today I decide the schedule of departure. This isn't your time."_  With that, he left Antonio to himself, to his life. A life he’d cheated twice, but did not care. He was his exception, more than one out of seven billion. He was giving him all the second chances he couldn't give anyone else.

* * *

Over the next several decades, Antonio did not misuse the life given back to him. He got help, got a net of new friends and family, married a Belgian girl and had three kids who he loved with all his heart. He did everything that one could do in a life, traveled and worked and did things wherever they could be done. But sometimes he sighed when he looked at the horizon, be it in Japan or America or wherever he was, finding something bittersweet in the line between the sky and the Earth.

* * *

The fourth and final time Death met the Spaniard, he did not look at the sky. He didn’t look at the hospital room, filled with flowers and balloons, the faint smell of lemon cleaning product. All he noticed was the wrinkled old man, resting in bed, tired but complacent, happy. Aware of his time. Lovino was aware of it too. He could put it off no longer, but he didn’t want to.

He felt no hesitation as he peeled the seal of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo’s soul, gently took the thing lightened by time and experience and set him by his side. His soul was young though, a twenty something thing staring up at him with old eyes.

"It is good to see you again, ferryman." he said, smiling as though he were an old friend. Perhaps he was, in a strange way.

_"You too, old man."_  he said, voice like chalk scraping against slate, but Antonio didn’t seem to mind. The corners of his mouth poked slightly upwards, the closest he could get to a smile.

"Will I ever see you again?" he asked, and Lovino shook his head. He never saw a person after they went through the gates, but he’d never thought about it before. None of the others had mattered so much.

"Oh. I suppose I must do this now then." he said, fingers curling around Lovino’s black robe and pulling him into a kiss. It was soft and tender and somehow warm in this realm of cold, and Lovino’s only thought was not shock or surprise, but wonder. Was this love? Was that what it felt like?

All too soon it was over, and had he any blood, he might be blushing. But he didn’t, so he wasn’t.

_"That was a foolish thing to do."_  he said, voice neutral as it had to be.

"Perhaps. But life is long and I love you." he stated, not a spot of hesitation or fear or anything in his voice. It gave Lovino pause, and without thinking, he knew. He loved this boy, this soul worth saving at all costs. So much so that he did not want to lose him.

_"If I asked you to do something selfish for me, would you do so?"_   he asked.  _"For once you go beyond the gate, you are beyond my reach."_

The soul seemed to contemplate this, for how long, it didn’t matter. Seconds and decades felt the same at this time. “What would you have me do?” he asked, and Lovino felt something deep inside him jump, and he knew it not exactly a soul or a heart, but it was the best he had in place of one.

_"Hide under my robe. Stay with me, at my side. You can be my Book Thief."_   he said, for everyone knew of the oldest reaper, the closest thing to Death itself, who kept a worn journal, falling apart now, under his robe. The tale of a girl, a boy, a Jew. A world tainted in hate.

He felt a rustling of cloth, and a light soul, once heavy, pressed against his side. “It’s warm in here.” said Antonio, and it was all the answer Lovino needed.

* * *

It was a timeless thing, this job, some things felt short when they were in truth, very long. Others long, when they were very short. Years were as common as seconds sometimes, or seconds longer than decades. Thus, Lovino had no true way of knowing how long he traveled with a soul at his side. But he knew how happy it made him.

He found it in the smiles he gave him as they walked between places, asking where they were going, who they were retrieving. Often, he would not tell him, but sometimes he would. He found it in the hand that would gently squeeze his shoulder when a heavy soul was in his arms, the quiet words he whispered to them, certainly better than he’d ever been. He supposed it was a matter of knowing. He found happiness in the brush of lips against his, warm as the sun, in the everlasting green of those old eyes, staring back at him.

He lost it all the day he found his robe empty.

There were no signs, no hints of departure. One moment he was there, and then he was not. It was as simple as that.

Death did not fancy himself as a man, as a being with anything other than a task to do. But Antonio had changed that, he had given him love, a sense of being. A soul. And at that moment, that strange, hobbled soul scraped its way out of him in the form of a scream, a scream so loud and pained and raw that it would drive anyone mad. But there was no one to hear it.

When Lovino had finished, he felt empty. Numb. He never noticed the cold before, but now it ate at him with such furiosity he shivered, held the robes tighter. He had a job to get to, and with shuffling steps, he began walking, as the old ones did. Slow, like every step was a knife pressed into him.

He understood the old ones now, the lack of care, the shivering. They had felt the warmth of love, and the absence of it was an ache they would never lose. He didn’t look at the souls he picked up anymore, didn’t look at the sky, didn’t even hold their hands. He moved them from their life to the gate and left it at that. He had no care what was beyond it now. Only foolish young ones did.


End file.
